This is the sequel to A Mother's Love.
Disclaimer: Alias is not mine.
Title: A Son's Revenge
Author: Ayaren (aka Abyssinian)
Rating: G
Timeline: AU Season Three (after Succession).
Summary: Sark wanted to make Irina ever regret choosing Sydney over him.
Julian Sark was a free man again and he was annoyed, sort of. He was not really sure how to describe it, and that unsettled him because he was used to knowing exactly how he felt, and why. This time he understood why Irina had turned him in, but what he did not comprehend was the reason for his prolonged incarceration and her apparent abandonment of him. That thought, more than anything, disturbed him. He could not believe she had devoted all those years of training and grooming just to drop him when things looked risky.
It occurred to him that he should not have really cared. He had been expendable, she had always told him so and he had believed her, but he still could not quite quell the sting of betrayal.
She had destroyed something between them, something that should not have existed but did. Now it was gone, and there was nothing to keep him from seeking retribution against her. She had been his teacher, his mentor, even his mother on occasion, but now she was nothing. Just another woman in a world filled with them. Just another opponent in a game where your luck could change as quickly as his had.
Two years. It made him want to scream with frustration, though he would never lose control to such an emotion. She had given him up without as much as a 'nice to know you' and then nothing. No communication whatsoever, not even a failed rescue attempt.
In some ways, he mused, Agent Bristow was lucky. At least she did not remember two years of tedium, of torture and of truly awful food. He resisted the urge to wrinkle his nose in disgust at the memory. Had the CIA never heard of the concept of cooking? They had no idea how badly he had longed for the taste of a good wine to wash down the slop they served.
Well, actually they did since he had commented so frequently on the topic with that disdainful tone that simply infuriated them. It meant they had had not broken him, that he still had secrets, and he refused to even pretend to crack out of pride.
But not even he could endure two years of imprisonment without some kind of change. He had not broken, yet he was not the same Mr Sark who's face Agent Vaughn had smashed into a table in Stockholm either. The old Sark was gone along with the curls and the Armani suits. He was no longer the unknown and underestimated 'pretty boy' of the international crime world and his new persona reflected that. He had always been dangerous, an operative with no known code of morality or visible loyalty, now he looked the part. And he was not going to give his new employers any reason to think he was anything more than Irina's abandoned pawn.
They all thought he wanted Rambaldi, even Irina had believed his apparent obsession. It was his greatest con, and he was proud that not even she, his maker, had seen through it. Rambaldi. Sometimes he had a powerful urge to just smash whatever artefact he was retrieving into a million pieces and walk away. Sometimes. But he knew it was not a scenario that would leave him alive for very long. That was his goal, he supposed, to survive and maybe control the crime world in his spare time —though when he was older and the need for the adrenaline rush his job gave him had diminished he might consider retiring somewhere sunny.
In the meantime, Irina had made him a prince and told him to construct the empire he would rule one day. It was a habit, he supposed, that he was still building it. Reactivating contacts, acquiring new ones, calling in favours and taking out opponents, accessing those secure bank accounts not even Irina knew about. Certainly he was put out by the fact that the Covenant had taken his money, but he was by no means destitute.
The Covenant provided him with an opportunity he was not willing to pass up. It was easier to reactivate his network using their resources than his own. And he was determined to steal back his inheritance if it killed him. The Covenant was searching for Irina too, so he factored their operation into his schemes and instructed his searchers accordingly. If she was ever found, he would know before any of his current employers.
He could not kill her. No one could kill Irina or harm her organisation and get away with it. He had destroyed enough people on her orders to know that. That was his advantage, he realised. He knew her organisation because he had helped assemble it (and dismantle parts of it via the CIA).
He wanted to hurt her though, to cause her so much pain that she would break. He wanted to make her regret ever choosing Sydney over him. He hated her now, hated everything about her and his enmity was not something people survived unscathed.
Two years had provided Sark with no less than seven more-than-thoroughly planned scenarios for a retaliation-free revenge that would guarantee the prospect of growing old and dying a natural death. But it was only now, standing in front of her and seeing that momentary flicker of relief in her eyes before she quenched it that he realised there was only one way he could truly hurt this woman.
She murmured his name with that husky accent that had haunted him mercilessly. It reminded him of the crisp mornings down by the lake, the cold grey stone of the school looming up behind them. It reminded him of the Spanish Villa where he had first fired a gun, and where he had pretended she was his mother for just a moment to see how it felt. It reminded him of blood staining navy carpet and sightless eyes staring up at him.
Her dark eyes shimmered and she said his name as if he was her son and he hated her for it because it made him feel like she cared.
Her hand rose from her side, slender fingers reaching out toward his cheek. He knew in that instant that despite everything she cared about him. That she had ignored her own rules about becoming attached. He knew it and it gave him the opportunity two years of planning had not quite been able to do. The opportunity to hurt her so deeply that she would regret the day she ever made the decision to use him for the rest of her life.
He took a single step back, out of her reach. His voice was harsh, devoid of anything but pure scorn as he told her no; he was not her Julian, not her Sark. Not any more. He was ice to her, and his blue eyes regarded her with all the warmth of an arctic blizzard.
Just to twist the knife further he smiled pleasantly and politely thanked her for taking such good care of him over the years. He would be in touch if his new job did not work out and until then would she kindly stay out of his business? With that he walked away, the smile morphing into something more unpleasant. He silently exulted and permitted himself a triumphant smirk as he surreptitiously glanced back over his shoulder.
Irina Derevko stood frozen, her eyes slightly wider than usual and her lips parted in dazed astonishment. It was the first time he had ever seen her lose some of her iron-willed control and for him that shocked expression gave far more satisfaction than killing her ever could. Had she just expected him to just forgive and forget? To tell her that two years was nothing and he wanted back into the family fold? He suspected she had not realised what those two years had done to his perspective on their relationship.
He was sick of being the pawn in her games, and though he knew he would never quite rid himself of her he was willing to try. Death by his hand she had accepted long ago as a possibility, but rejection? His denial of her and the fact he owed his very existence to her? The thought had probably never crossed her mind that he would possess the strength to break the bloodied chains that bound them together.
Despite the ups and downs of their relationship over the years she had always protected him and he had always accepted her words and whatever affection she bestowed on him. That he refused her now told her more emphatically than the gun holstered beneath his jacket that he would never be hers again.
Sark chuckled, sliding his sunglasses onto the bridge of his nose. He could not remember the last time vengeance had felt so right.
END
Okay, well. I wasn't really sure about this, but since everyone demanded one (at SD1 at least) I decided to attempt a sequel. I don't think it's as good as A Mother's Love, and I the ending didn't come out quite how I wanted. But oh well, there you are and thank you for reading